


Postmortem Post

by moovelope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ? - Freeform, M/M, Necrophilia, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moovelope/pseuds/moovelope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These messages, he doesn't put them on the blog.  He hasn't touched the website in months.  And anyway, who would care about messages from a dead man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postmortem Post

In his dreams John writes messages.

They aren't messages to anyone in particular.  At least, not that he knows.  Sherlock never specifies who the recipient is, he simply gives him the messages and then John writes them down.  Most of them don't even make sense.  At times they're just random strings of numbers, or stupid phrases like "Don't forget the milk."  But, while he’s dreaming, the message is of the utmost importance.

In his dreams John doesn't see Sherlock fall.

During the day he could remember the sight of his friend jumping just fine.  It ran in slow motion in his head when things became too still, when there was a lull in the conversation, whenever he had too much time to think.  Suddenly he’d close his eyes and there was Sherlock, arms spread wide as he jumped.  Then the brief flailing of limbs until his descent was blocked from view by a nearby building. 

No, it was the blurred and chaotic moments afterwards that he barely remembers, so instead he dreams.

He walks calmly over to the body on the sidewalk, no one pushes him down, no group of paramedics and bystanders hold him back.  He simply sits next to Sherlock and looks.  He observes the blood pooling on the ground and drenching dark hair.  He notes the awkward angle of limbs.  And he looks into glassy eyes.

It is then that Sherlock speaks.

His mouth never moves, yet John can hear him just the same.  Sherlock imparts his message and John, obediently, dips his fingers into the dark red stain beside him and writes the words on the sidewalk next to the body.  Only when he's finished, do Sherlock's eyes close and he wakes from the dream.

The first time the message is "The cat is loose," and he gets violently sick at two in the morning.

The second is "Find a better hat," and he refuses to go back to sleep.

The third is "Tick tock goes the clock," and he starts a search for sleep medication.

But, the medicine doesn't really help and he still often dreams of the cold blue day that his best friend commttied suicide.

He writes down the messages in a journal when he's able to remember them, which is more times than not.  The image of the note written in blood leaves a strong imprint on his memory, whether he'd like it to or not.  These messages certainly do not go up on the blog, which he abandoned months ago. He dates each one and goes on with his life.

Only very few have made him physically sick.

"Mrs. Hudson was shot," because in the dream, in John’s reality, she had been.  Her body appeared next to Sherlock's, laid down as if she were only asleep, the illusion only broken by the violent red puncture that adorned her forehead.

"I don't feel anything," because this time, Sherlock is still alive when John reaches him.  His breathing is labored and he's trying to move the arm that is likely broken.  And John, the doctor; who’s seen much worse and still helped out in the line of fire, sits there and only observes.  Of course this man feels, he thinks; look at the slight shaking of his hands and the wild quality of his eyes.  Sherlock Holmes is scared.  And, after a heartbeat, after John has written the message, does Sherlock still and close his eyes.

"Why did you believe me?" because Sherlock's voice, but not his voice, sounds so accusatory, sounds so level.  Even in his dreams does Sherlock try and convince him that everything was a lie.  Yet, the act of writing the message in blood seemed to negate the proposed idea that any of this was false.  John knew two undeniable truths.  Sherlock Holmes was right.  Sherlock Holmes was dead.

The worst, the absolute worst dream that kept him up for days was the shortest message.  He sat down on the concrete as usual, studied the crushed features of his friend's face, imagined bruises blossoming and blood filling irises.  He waited for the message, waited a long time.  

And, for the first time, he spoke.

"Sherlock?"

After a moment, the man’s eyes slowly slid up to meet John’s gaze.  His mouth moved, ever so slightly. 

"I'm sorry."

And his eyes slid closed.  Yet, John didn't wake up.  Instead he reached forward and brushed the hair out of Sherlock's eyes and wiped away most of the blood.  He held the face for a moment, cradling it, before leaning in and kissing the still lips.

This.  This was the truth that Sherlock had been trying to impart on him.  His cold lips had just never been able to form the words.  John kisses him to bring the warmth back to Sherlock's mouth, his face, and his eyes.  If John kisses him long enough, he will sit up and breathe and smile because John has figured it out.  Every spare glance, every veiled comment he has uttered comes back to John now.  Hazy memories become vivid, are filled in and suddenly John _sees_.

Sherlock had needed him, so much more than he'd ever realized.  He sees just how deep this man's sentiments had lain.

John sees until he opens his eyes and there is Sherlock's bloodied and bruised face.  His lips are turning blue and one eyelid is awkwardly half open.  He is broken, and isn't ever going to be fixed.

John wakes crying and can't seem to find a way to stop.  The pillow sufficiently muffles his sobs, as Mrs. Hudson doesn't mention anything the next morning.  Now, though, he cries because the feeling of dead lips still linger on his, the blood still seeps into his skin and because he has just been hit with the realization of just how much he has lost.


End file.
